


and we are finally home

by springsoldier (ladydaredevil)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1582175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydaredevil/pseuds/springsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier shows up in Sam's kitchen, one morning. <br/>He deals with it. <br/>(Natasha helps. Steve would, if they let him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we are finally home

Sam has signed up for a lot of things in his life. Among other things the army, helping Captain America take down S.H.I.E.L.DRA, and one time that Black Widow fan club newsletter (not that he would admit to that last one).

But this?

This is not one of these things.

He did not sign up to wake up to the fucking Winter Soldier, standing in the shadows of his dimly-lit kitchen. 

Sam had dragged himself out of bed at dawn, and stumbled into the kitchen in search of a morning cup of coffee before his run – he might’ve given up on jogging with Steve, because he’s an asshole who can run circles around Sam without even trying, but he’s still keeping in shape. But that’s going to have to wait, apparently.

“Um” Sam says, wishing he were more paranoid and more prone to keeping guns on his person at all times. Of course this would happen when Steve’s gone back to New York to do some avenging, after _months_ of looking all over for this asshole.

The man, from what Sam can see of him, looks more tired and wary than threatening. He’s wearing what could only be described as hobo clothes, his long hair and beard unkempt.  And he generally looks nothing like one of the deadliest men alive.

“Steve’s not here. If you were looking for him. But I can try to call him, I guess… He’d love to hear from –“

“No. I don’t… No.” His voice is raspy from disuse and… Is he _fidgeting?_ Sam blinks, perplexed and still very much on his guard. Would it get him killed if he made a move towards the coffee machine? He can’t tell.

“Okay… Not Steve then. Do you need something?” He hopes that thing is a shower.

The twitching intensifies, and he opens his mouth a few times, brows furrowed in concentration as if he’s thinking really hard about what he’s going to say.

“You… help. People. Like me. Soldiers.” He seems unsure of himself even as he states it, blue eyes fixed on Sam with an intensity that’s a little disquieting. Even more disquieting is the fact that he seems to know a lot of things about Sam. He wonders if he’s been tracking them, the whole time they’ve been tracking him, only much more successfully.

He has no idea where Barnes has been since the whole incident with the Helicarriers, and not for lack of trying to find him. Granted, their resources had been a little thin given that SHIELD was gone and that Steve and Sam both were on rather unfriendly terms with the good old government at the moment. Especially since the fuckers had confiscated his – admittedly stolen, but for a good cause – heavily-damaged wings. 

But there had been no sign of the Winter Soldier when they’d tracked down the people in his file. Sam had seen shadier things than even his considerable experience had prepared him for, but their favourite assassin apparently hadn’t felt like, or maybe hadn’t been in a state to, go on a revenge killing spree. He’d just completely vanished.

You’d think a heavily traumatised man with a metal arm would be easy to find, but no. Steve had been terrified that his friend might’ve killed himself, unable to deal with the memories of his time as a Hydra puppet.

They’d managed to catch a few mad scientists here and there in Eastern Europe though, so it hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Steve had probably needed the time to process, and to beat the shit out of some of the people responsible, too. Sam didn’t mind. Because he’d have done the same for Riley, and because those sick bastards deserved the full wrath of Captain America.

Whatever he’d been doing the whole time, the man now awkwardly standing in his kitchen looks more like a lost child than like the unflinching killer Sam has fought (and lost) against. He also looks nothing like the man Steve talks about all the time, the laughing man in the black and white newsreels at the Smithsonian.

Sam thinks about the picture of him in his Hydra file, the one where he’s frozen in one of those stasis tanks, and thinks.  

“Okay. I can help you. Okay. I’m… coffee first. Do you want coffee?”

He gets a half-shrug at best, and the eyes track him around the kitchen. He gets two mugs, anyway.

Sam knows PTSD. He’s felt it, seen it, studied it, talked about it, treated it… but this man has been through _decades_ of conditioning on top of being a POW to _Nazi Scientists_ and fighting in WWII and losing a limb and killing loads and loads of people while brainwashed.

Sam’s a little out of his depth, here. So coffee it is.

They stand in awkward silence while the machine whistles, quietly assessing each other.

When it’s done he inhales half his cup, and hands the other one to the Winter Soldier – Bucky? Barnes? Barnes. – who snatches it inhumanly fast and retreats into his corner, takes a few careful sips after a few moments of hesitation.

“So you remember things, now? From before?”

Barnes’ lower lip is bleeding, from where he’s worrying at it as he thinks.  

“Some. Not much, but… Some of it.”

“Good, good. We’ve been looking for you, you know?”

That earns him a tiny quirk of the lips that could technically be something like a baby smirk, and a raised eyebrow. It’s the closest thing to amusement, or any genuine emotion, that he’s ever seen from Barnes, not counting movies from the forties.

That’s something. And hey, Sam’s an optimist at heart. Maybe Steve was right. Maybe he _can_ be saved, after all. Sam’s certainly going to try.

“Well, then. Make yourself at home.”

 

The thing about saving people, though?

It’s _hard._

Sam’s spare bedroom gets trashed on an almost nightly basis – when Barnes does show up. Sometimes he just vanishes for a while, and never says anything about it when he comes back.

If getting a regular soldier to talk about his issues is hard, it’s nothing compared to a practically silent one from the forties with enough trauma for a squad or two.

Good thing Sam is great at his job.

Most of the time he talks, and if he’s lucky Barnes listens. 

He doesn’t tell Steve, when he calls two weeks in.

He’s surprised that his friend hasn’t gotten Stark to use all his futuristic shit to look for Barnes, but he thinks that maybe it’s because he’s had enough of the whole Big Brother thing for a while.

He doesn’t tell Steve, because Barnes is sitting on his couch watching what appears to be a cooking show. He looks casual, the only tension in his body the way he drums the fingers of his metal hand against his thigh, but Sam knows that the second he says something, gives even a hint, that he’s there, he’ll be gone. Possibly forever.

But mostly he doesn’t tell Steve because Barnes’ gotten screwed over so often that it’s a fucking miracle that he can be there watching terrible TV and not talking to the voices in his head in a mental ward somewhere. Not that he could be called completely sane, per se, but they get by.

Most nights Barnes screams himself awake, and there are times when the man looking back at Sam when he wakes him up, as gently as he can, is not the one he’s been getting to know.

Sam almost gets choked to death a few times. You’d think he’d get used to it, but you’d be wrong.

Barnes always apologizes after, eyes wide with horror, and offers to go, to leave, to stop putting Sam in danger like that. Sam just tells him to shut up and go back to sleep, that he’s exaggerating, that they’ll talk about it in the morning if he really wants to go.

They don’t talk about it in the morning.

But those times aren’t the worst, the worst are the days when he’s just – a blank slate, and Sam could probably tell him to do _anything_ and there would be no questions, just blind obedience, and it’s more terrifying than anything Sam has ever seen, on the battlefield or off of it. He just can’t imagine what kind of torture a man like Bucky Barnes must have endured to be broken into, moulded into, a – thing, like this. Because when he’s in that state he’s not a person, just a weapon waiting to be pointed at the right direction.

It’s slow going, but there is progress, though it’s nowhere near linear. After a good day where Barnes eats and addresses Sam a few times without being prompted, he can go pretty much catatonic and not emerge from his room for two or three days.

Sometimes he picks fights for no reason, and Sam never answers him, just gives him space until he gets a hold of himself, often after having stormed off for a few hours.

Their ‘sessions’ are about as unpredictable, and always unpleasant. Barnes talks about the horrible things he’s done, and the horrible things that have been done to him, with such detachment than Sam can’t stand it sometimes.

Other times he just curls himself into a ball and cries for a long, long time.

 

Times goes by, and things get a little better. Steve is still in New York, working with Stark on building a replacement for S.H.I.E.L.D. He calls when he can, and while he’d obviously rather still be wandering around, looking for Bucky and destroying leftover Hydra cells, he can’t bear not to be there to make sure that they get is _right_ this time, and not accidentally hand over the means to conquer the world to terrorists again.

He tries to convince Sam to move to New York a few times. Sam thinks that maybe he’s a little lonely, since Natasha’s still off somewhere trying to reinvent herself and the other Avengers apparently have their own lives.

Barnes has started shaving again, and hacked at his mane of hair. He still refuses to wear anything but Sam’s Army shirts and sweats though. One morning, when Barnes is frowning at his bowl of cereals like he’s never seen it before, despite the fact that he’s had it every day for at least a month, Sam’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“Hey, I never asked, but… what made you decide to come here?”

Barnes thinks about it for a long while.

“I saw the exhibit, at the museum. I looked… happy.” And there’s a distant sense of wonder in his voice, and he looks at Sam like he’s waiting to be told that he’s being ridiculous. Sam just nods, hoping he’ll say more. And really, the Smithsonian? That’s probably the last place he’d have thought to look.

“And… He trusts you, I could tell.” It’s like a punch to the gut, seeing the absolute faith in Steve in his eyes, so unflinching that is apparently transferable, though maybe to not-so-absolute levels. It seems to be the only solid thing in his shaky understanding of the world around him.

Barnes doesn’t talk about Steve much (doesn’t speak much in general). He chokes out half-remembered snippets of their childhood from time to time, but he never says his name. Sam thinks it’s because he doesn’t feel like he’s allowed, and he hurts for this pair of Brooklyn boys who wound up so far from home.

 

Natasha just shows up one day, no warnings and no calls ahead.

Sam’s not there to witness it, but judging by the knife embedded in the kitchen wall and the general destruction in his living room, Barnes wasn’t expecting her, either.

He assumes they’ve settled their differences by the time he comes home though, because they’re sitting close on his couch, heads bent together and hands clasped on Natasha’s knees. There’s a low but steady chatter – coming from her, mostly – in what he assumes is Russian. They don’t even look at him when he crosses the room and into the kitchen, too wrapped up in each other, though he has no doubts they were aware of his presence long before he was aware of theirs.

He’d learned of their previous relationship completely by accident, when he was complaining about the fact that Barnes had been impossible to find, and offhandedly mentioned that she’s warned Steve of that exact thing.

Barnes had hardly ever said anything at that point, but Sam had been starting to be pretty fluent in his facial expressions. So he’d paused at the raised eyebrow aimed his way.

“Natasha? Black Widow? You know, the hot redhead with the –“Sam had tried to explain.

Barnes had _glared_ , a full-on _Winter Soldier_ glare that had made Sam a little worried, if he was entirely honest with himself.

“Okay, not talking about Natasha anymore. But you knew her, right? Even before we, uh, met.”

 “Natalia” Barnes had said.

 “What?”

“Her name’s Natalia. Was, when I knew her.” He’d paused, frowned. “I think.”

Sam had been pretty sure that he’d meant that he _knew her_ , knew her. Which was… unexpected, but did explain some things. Barnes hadn’t wanted to see her then, when Sam had offered to get in touch with her, but he seems pretty happy that she’s here now.

Sam makes himself scarce for the evening.

“Thank you” Natasha tells him, before she leaves. “You’re a good man, Sam Wilson.” She kisses him on the cheek as she goes through the door. He waits until she’s out of sight to punch the air.

It’s the first time he hears Barnes laugh, low and rusty but real.

“You’re still fixing the walls.” Sam says, even as he smiles helplessly.

 

Barnes waits for news of Steve like a junkie for a call from his dealer, eyes still too intense as they track Sam whenever he’s on the phone, still and silent like any movement could give him away. Maybe he’s not wrong, what with the super-hearing thing.

“I shot Him,” he says one night, after Sam has hung up and imparted all his new Steve-related knowledge to his rapt audience, metal hand crushing the flesh one in a way that will leave angry bruises. Sam can hear the capital H, the quiet reverence mixed in with all the self-loathing. “Why does he still ..?”

“He’s an idiot, and you’re his best friend. He’s never going to give up on you, buddy.”

Steve is nothing if not a stubborn bastard, but he’s stumped and increasingly frustrated over the lack of intel on Bucky’s whereabouts. Which means that Natasha hasn’t told him anything and that Stark doesn’t have satellites that can see into Sam’s home yet. That’s good, but Sam wonders how long it can last.

“He should.”

“You know, I told him that, when he first figured out who you were.”

Barnes doesn’t even blink, thoroughly unsurprised.

“He should’ve listened.”

“Nah, I’m starting to think he was right.”

Barnes stares at him for a long time after that, trying to find the lie. Sam doesn’t look away.

He tells him about Riley, instead.

 

Sam can’t stay home all day – harboring someone who’s hiding from a fuckload of people, including Captain America and whatever’s left of Hydra, plus probably a lot of other very shady people, means he can’t do anything conspicuous like take a random staycation – and _somebody_ has to pay the bills, especially now that’s he’s also providing for a starved super-soldier who still eats everything he can get his hands on like he’s not sure when his next meal will be, and breaks things a lot in moments of incoherent rage/terror. So he doesn’t really know what Barnes does when he’s not around, but he figures that he probably doesn’t go out much during the day, preferring the cover of the night when he does leave the house to do god knows what (Sam’s not too worried. The man managed to stay under the radar for months even while having a pretty thorough emotional breakdown, and has never shown signs of having hurt random bystanders even at his most unstable, which is kind of a miracle… or something a lot more horrific than that, given how passive he sometimes gets when he’s having an episode).

 Which is why Sam almost has a heart attack when he hears from his neighbour, sickly old Mrs. Jones, that ‘his young man is very polite’ and that Sam should tag along the next time they have tea. And that’s how he learns that Barnes has been helping her weed out her garden.

She doesn’t mind when he has episodes, she says. Her husband was in the war, and he had shell-shock too, or whatever it is they call it these days, and if Sam needs some tips he can just call her up.

Sam thanks her, a little bewildered, and goes home to find Barnes napping on the couch.

“You know Mrs. Jones thinks we’re together?” He asks him later, as they’re contemplating what kind of pizza to order (neither of them are great cooks, though Barnes has an unhealthy fascination for the Food Network). Okay, so maybe they’re a little domestic.

“Oh, yeah. She just assumed, seemed as good a cover as any.”

“Huh”

“What? It’s fine now.”  His tone is stubborn, insistent, as if daring Sam to tell him he’s wrong. “It was on the news.”

“I know it’s fine, I just didn’t know you did.”

Barnes rolls his eyes at him.

“Just ‘cause it could get you thrown in jail doesn’t mean people didn’t do it back then.”

It might be the longest sentence Sam has ever heard him say, and he knows it, too. They exchange a startled look, and then Sam tells him to just pick a damn pizza, already.

Around that time, Sam’s coworkers and the guys from his groups at the VA start thinking that he’s seeing somebody, because he’s so quick to hurry home after work, and more prone to turning down nights out than he used to be. He can’t tell them that he really just wants to make sure that the house (and Barnes) is still standing.

 

 

Barnes comes and goes, but after Sam asks him if he could possibly let him know if he plans to be there for supper one night, he checks in every day with military precision. It makes Sam a little uncomfortable, but he doesn’t mention it. .

Sam knows he’s getting maintenance on his left arm somewhere, but doesn’t really notice the difference until Barnes is wearing a sleeveless shirt one day (Sam has no idea where it comes from), and the red star on it isn’t red anymore, but white.

He stares a little – more than a little – until Barnes grumbles at him to go away. It takes a lot of effort, but he doesn’t ask.

Sometimes groceries miraculously appear in the fridge, or a newspaper on the kitchen table.   Sometimes he brings back baked goods from Mrs. Jones’ place (they actually do wind up having tea with her from time to time) and on a memorable occasion shows up one morning with what seems like an old grenade launcher.

“You can’t just _bring weapons_ here.” Sam says, in what he thinks is a reasonably calm tone given the circumstances.

Barnes throws a guilty look towards his room. Sam sighs.

“I don’t want to know, do I?”

“… Probably not.”

Sam tries to ignore the fact that there’s probably a whole arsenal of dubiously-acquired weapons in his guest bedroom and just hopes that he’s never going to have to try to explain that to the cops.

 

One day, he brings Sam’s wings back.

Sam has no idea how he did it (okay, that’s not quite true, he’s done the heist thing himself), or who repaired them, but they’re fully functional and maybe it’s a little dumb and certainly very reckless, but grabs Barnes into a crushing embrace, just for an instant before he remembers who, exactly, he’s trying to hug.

Barnes stares at him like he’s grown a second head, frozen in place and fists clenched like he’s trying really hard not to lash out. Sam winces, the rush of overwhelming gratitude receding as fast as it’d come.

“Sorry about that. But thank you, man. _Thank you_.”

Barnes nods stiffly, and then shuffles awkwardly to his room, where he stays holed up for the next two days, until Sam makes him apology pancakes. 

“Do you ever think about the future?” He asks, as Barnes makes a valiant attempt to eat his weight in breakfast food.

“What future?”

“Isn’t there something you want to do, when you’re better?”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“You’ll never be the same way you were before, but you’ve made a lot of progress. Hell, you haven’t tried to kill me in almost a month.”

“What an achievement. We should have a party.” Barnes deadpans.

“Just think about it.”

 

Natasha drops in now and again, ostensibly to check on ‘James’, as she calls him (It takes far too long for Sam to remember that it’s his actual name). It takes a while, but eventually he allows her to cut his hair into a more presentable shape.

He looks so much more _alive_ , when she’s around. She manages to alternately bully and cajole him into putting proper clothes on, into shaving and talking and going out. Her visits clearly dredge up bad memories though, for the both of them. Sam’s pretty sure it’s why she never stays long.

They talk about rebuilding a network of safe houses and weapons caches, now that everything S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra had is on the internet, drink what is probably ridiculously expensive vodka (he’d tell Barnes not to, but it’s not like his metabolism allows him to get drunk, anyway) and occasionally vanish for evenings that could just as easily be spent on friend-dates (he asked, they’re not _together_ -together) in classy restaurant as taking down leftover Soviet sleeper agents (or something).

_Spies_ , man. Sam stays as little involved as possible.

They even spend a weekend in Paris once (she requisitioned Stark’s private jet, apparently), which Sam only learns about because Barnes brings him back a cheap Eiffel Tower magnet (he thinks he’s funny but he’s really not).   

“Why Paris?” Sam asks, a little bewildered. Barnes shrugs, eyes far away.

“I promised her, a long time ago.”

 

The day that Shit Goes Down in New York (take two) is probably one of the most stressful of his life, active duty notwithstanding.  Sam and Barnes stay glued to the TV because, well, there’s really nothing else they can do. Driving there would take far too long, and Sam’s wings may be awesome, but they aren’t meant for long distances. 

He’s not sure which one of them hates it more, being on the sidelines.

Barnes exchanges a few texts with Natasha – when did he get a phone? – but his expression doesn’t change, and Sam doesn’t ask.

They both let out audible breaths when Steve appears on camera, once the chaos is a little more under control. He looks exhausted, leaning on Barton a little, and he has to wipe at the cut bleeding sluggishly above his an eyebrow to avoid being blinded, but he’s almost glowing with triumph as he addresses the reporters.

“Well. Look at that.” Sam says. “Seems like Cap did just fine without us.”

Barnes flinches almost imperceptibly and Sam pats him on the shoulder, movement slow enough that he could easily avoid the touch if he wanted.

“His loss, huh?”

The only answer he gets is a vaguely amused huff. It occurs to Sam that they’re probably friends, by now. Imagine that.

 

Barnes likes to come with him when he goes for a run, as long as it’s early enough that they’re not likely to meet many people. He keeps pace with Sam, too, even though his breathing barely changes not matter how long they run. He never fails to give Sam an unimpressed look when he has to stop, unable or unwilling to go on. Sometimes he even makes snide remarks, because he’s kind of a dick, and talks more often now.

He hasn’t said a word this time, though, but Sam has learned by now to differentiate his silences, and this one isn’t bad, just thoughtful.

“I think… you could tell him, now.” He tells Sam, who’s taking long gulps from a water bottle. Sam doesn’t make the connection immediately, too caught up in his thoughts about goddamn super-soldiers and their iron lungs. 

“What?”

“About me.”

“You want me to call Steve?”

“… Yeah. I think so.” 

Sam has no illusions as to what has prompted this sudden change. Barnes might be terrified of hurting Steve, but he’s arguably even more terrified of _other people_ hurting him and being unable to do anything about it. His protective instincts are apparently stronger than anything Hydra could come up with, even with the whole super soldier thing. Sam vaguely pities whoever was dumb enough to pick on Steve when they were kids, and tells Barnes so.

“Shut up, Wilson.”

 

 

Calling Steve, even though he’s been waiting for the occasion to do it for months now, is a little nerve-wracking. For the both of them.

“Hey, Sam. Is everything okay? I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch lately, things have been a little… hectic.”

“Yeah, I saw. It was something, alright. You could’ve called me for backup, you know?”

Steve makes a vague noise of agreement, clearly thinking of something else.

“I know you have other things to do, but did you get anything on Bucky?  I just haven’t had _time_ to do any research and Natasha won’t give me anything anymore, because she says that the fact that we’re not finding anything means he doesn’t want to be found and that I should respect that. Do you think she knows where he is?”

Sam composes himself, trying to say it as gently as possible.

“Uh, yeah, about that... He’s been staying with me for a while now.”

 There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.

“ _What?_ ”

“He came to me for help… I can’t explain it, but he did, and he’s doing pretty okay now, all things considered. And, uh, he’s ready for you to know where he is now, I guess.”

“He _remembers_?”

“Probably not as much as he’d like but yeah, kind of.”

Steve’s tone is more awed than anything else, but grows frantic after the shock passes a little.

“Is he with you? Can I talk to him? Please, Sam.”

Barnes shakes his head viciously from where he’s standing, close enough to hear the whole conversation. Of course he’d chicken out now.

“Wait a sec,” he tells Steve, and levels a stare at Barnes, who’s clenching his fists so hard that he can hear the metal joints creaking.

“You said you were ready.”

“For him to _know_ , not to _talk_.”

It takes a lot of coaxing, but Barnes gives in eventually, and his voice is shaky as hell when he does take the phone. Sam backs away, to give them some kind of privacy, but he doesn’t move fast enough not to hear the sobbed out _Hey, Steve_.

 

Steve shows up so fast it has to be some kind of record, and takes up residence on the couch. It’s nice to have someone he can actually converse with in the house, because while Barnes is a smartass, he’s not a very chatty one and usually conveys his emotions through complex eyebrow choreographies and intense stares. It is getting a little crowded, though. Sam’s house was never meant for three grown men; let alone grown men with a variety of issues and dangerous reflexes.

Sam finds himself playing buffer a lot, because Steve and Barnes just have _too many feelings_ , mostly about each other.

Steve tries. Steve tries so hard to be supportive and understanding and to read everything he can on helping loved ones deal with PTSD (even though he never even considered getting any kind of treatment for his own) and attends the VA meetings and tries to get Barnes to do mediation with him (apparently Dr. Banner taught him). 

He tries so hard it that just watching physically hurts Sam sometimes, because that’s what Steve Rogers does. But the thing is, he’s not exactly a pillar of mental health, either.

Natasha, who shows up one day fully expecting a scolding at the very least for keeping Barnes’ location from Steve and gets a hug instead, thinks that it’s good for him anyway, since he learns the relaxation techniques and how to deal with panic attacks and all those other things even if he doesn’t think they’re applicable to him.

She tries her best to help, too, with her knowledge of soviet brainwashing and other unsavoury things, even though she confesses to Sam over coffee that she has no idea what to do with them and their messy relationship. They do that. Have coffee, just the two of them. Barnes mocks him endlessly about it (in relatively few words). Sam is starting to think of the four of them as a weird, messed up familial unit, trying to keep each other from drowning even as they’re barely floating themselves.    

 

Barnes’ night terrors pick up again, once Steve is there. It’s a good thing that Steve is more durable than Sam, and as such is less likely to get killed accidentally. It makes him careless though, and he gets injured pretty badly one night, jaw fractured in two places and bruises that even the serum can’t make disappear overnight.

Barnes flat-out vanishes for a week after that particular incident, and then only agrees to come back if Steve swears that he’ll be more careful when handling him.

Steve has nightmares, too. He doesn’t talk about them, but he stays up with Sam at night sometimes, and they play poker. Sam wins. Always, because Steve’s poker face is terrible. Natasha wipes the floor with the both of them, on the rare occasion she stays over. She rooms with Barnes, when she does. Sam and Steve both pretend they’re totally okay with that.

 

Arguments erupt pretty frequently, but they’re often one-sided (except when Barnes implies that he’d rather be dead and that Steve shouldn’t even want to look at him. That never fails to anger Steve). Mostly it’s just Barnes failing to deal with the guilt and anger and resentment that are eating at him every minute of every day in a constructive manner. This time, though, Barnes has a point. Sam’s not sure which one of them is more surprised when he takes his side.

“Steve, man, you need a hobby. Spending your days making sad eyes at Barnes is not going to help either of you. Visiting Mrs. Carter doesn’t count, it’s just as depressing.”

Barnes grunts into his cereals in agreement. Steve grumbles.

It’s the start of the Great Art Supplies War. Barnes has apparently remembered that Steve used to be an artist, and as such has decided that if he can be convinced to take it up again, he’ll be happier. Sam has heard worse plans. He just wishes it didn’t involve covering every inch of his house in papers, canvas, paintbrushes, sketchpads, charcoals, and more kinds of pencils that Sam had thought could possibly exists (God only knows where Barnes gets all that stuff. Probably from Natasha).  

It takes a week, but Steve starts drawing again, mostly Barnes from all possible angles but also buildings, Sam and Natasha, the other Avengers, random people on the streets. The vast majority of the supplies still get donated to the closest community centre. 

Steve gets wrapped up in his work after that, and goes to the Smithsonian every day for two weeks (skipping the Captain America exhibit entirely). Sam and Barnes don’t say the words _I told you so_ , but they smile smugly at each other a lot and hang sketches on the fridge like proud parents.

When Sam says that Steve draws Barnes a lot? He means _a lot._ It’s not like it’s the first thing that makes him wonder if their relationship is maybe not entirely platonic, but it’s the first time it’s more than just a passing thought, quickly forgotten in favour of more important issues.

Sam is no expert, but some of those sketches are way too _appreciative_ for a male best friend. He thinks Barnes has noticed too, partly because he’s taken to staring at Steve all the time when he thinks nobody sees him, but doesn’t mention it to either of them. They have enough things to deal with as it is.

 

They’re _really_ unsubtle about it though, because Mrs. Jones clucks her tongue at Sam, one morning when he helps her carry her groceries into her house.

“You might want to watch your James more closely, dear. I’ve seen the way he looks at that boy who’s moved in with you.”

Sam laughs.

“I think Steve had a claim on him long before I ever did, Ma’am. Don’t worry about it. Thanks, though.”

Barnes asks him if he knows what’s going on with Mrs. Jones later that week, a little discomfited after she’s apparently given him the cold shoulder.

“Oh, yeah. She thinks you’re cheating on me with Steve.”

“I – What? That’s not true!” He sounds vaguely offended and a lot mortified.

“Especially considering we’re not together anyway.”

“…Right.”

Barnes rather unsubtly changes the subject after that, asking him if he’s fine with lasagna for dinner (which is obviously a ploy, because Barnes might not cook much, but his lasagna is _fantastic_ ).

The last thing he expects is for Steve to actually confront him about his non-existent, totally fake relationship with Barnes, but he’s learned to accept that his life is fucking weird, and rolls with it. It’s kind of hilarious, really.

“Hey, Sam, can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“It’s just… I heard… Are you and Bucky..?” He trails off, looking as though finishing the sentence would physically pain him.

“… fonduing?” Sam guesses.

Steve pales.

“ _How_ did you learn about that?”

“It’s been passed through generations of the Carter family, apparently. They’re the keepers of the knowledge that Captain America is a dork. I guess it humanises you, or something. Sharon got trashed and told it to Natasha, Natasha felt the need to share it with the rest of us.”

“Wait, wait, Sharon and Peggy are related?”

“Man, does no one ever tell you anything?”

“ _Apparently not_.”

“… but no, Barnes and I are not doing whatever you thought fondue means, nor are we otherwise involved, despite what the neighbours might say. He’s all yours, pal.”

“I’m not… I wasn’t – That’s not why I asked.”

Steve makes a tactical retreat after that, knowing when to admit defeat.

 

 

Sam’s not actually sure when the two idiots figure out that they’re equally gone on each other, if they were actually together back in the forties and just never mentioned it to him, or if it’s a new development. He’s really glad that he was spared the details, to be honest. There are some things a guy just doesn’t need to know about Captain America. Sam has few illusions left as it is about Steve the man, if he ever had any.

Eventually Steve moves from the couch and into the guest room (it’s anyone’s guess how two men their size fit on what could only be called a double bed if you were feeling generous). The night terrors drop significantly after that, which both is and isn’t a surprise.

 Steve doesn’t like the weapons cache any more than Sam does. It’s a relief because neither Barnes nor Natasha understand what the problem is, and he was starting to wonder if maybe he was overreacting. He definitely needs to hang out with normal people more often.

He tries really, really hard to ignore the sounds coming from the guest bedroom at night, after that, though not for the usual reasons (that bed would _not_ withstand super-soldier sex anyway).

It’s the litanies of _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ , the whispered _it’s okay, it’s fine, you’re okay now, I’m here, no one’s going to hurt you now, I’ll kill them if they try, I won’t fail you again_ and _oh god I missed you, please stay, please don’t leave me_ that leave Sam uncomfortable and unspeakably sad.

He’d rather they had furniture-breaking sex, really.

 

“I don’t understand him.” Barnes says, from his spot near the window, where he’s watching Steve mow what little lawn Sam’s property has. He volunteered, because Sam never does it, and he feels awful about freeloading (of course he does). “I think I used to, but now… I don’t understand how he could possibly forgive the things I’ve done.”

Sam usually leaves the question of whether Barnes has to be held responsible for the Winter Soldier’s actions to Steve, who has Very Strong Feelings about it.

“It wasn’t you.”

“But it was! And how can anyone possibly be that good? Even for him, it’s too much to ask.”

“Ever thought it might be selfish?”

“What?

“When I met him… He was seriously depressed, man. He felt like he had nothing left. Then you showed up, and it was a shock, yeah, but I don’t think there’s anything you could’ve done that would’ve made him regret that you were alive.”

“I almost killed him.”

“Yeah, well. I never said he was smart. But you didn’t, though. You stopped.”

“I don’t deserve him. Never did, but especially now.”

“Maybe not. But maybe he deserves you. God knows why, having you around seems to make him happy.”

There’s a quirk to Barnes’ lips when he grumbles. “Shut up, Wilson.”

 

 

Sam watches the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder ( _barbecuing_ ,of all things) in a way that both is and isn’t the way they looked in that movie from the forties.

They’ll never be totally fine, but Sam thinks that maybe they’ve never been in the first place.

Barnes still reacts wrong to sudden movements, and there are giant holes in his memories that might never get filled. Steve still hovers and worries and doesn’t think he needs therapy. And some nights Sam finds him sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands and looking like maybe he’ll never smile again. They still tiptoe around each other, and sometimes can’t look each other in the eye for days, and sometimes have explosive arguments that make Barnes vanish into thin air for a while. But none of that matters, on a good day.

On a good day Sam comes home to them in a position that can really only be called cuddling, discussing the ridiculousness of whatever is on TV like the old men they are, gently shoving at each other and calling each other insults that are really endearments in ways that Sam would probably find a little sickening, if it happened all the time. As it is, he plops himself down on the ground in front of the couch, and tells them not to be too gross while he’s around. Barnes kicks him lightly, and Steve tells him that jealousy doesn’t suit him.

 

It was inevitable, really, so it doesn’t really surprise Sam when it happens. They’re moving back to New York, to an apartment in Brooklyn that is far more fancy than anything they could’ve afforded in their youth, but still far less so than Steve’s suite in Avengers Tower, which he’s confessed to avoiding as much as he can. He gets on pretty well with Stark and the others by now, but the opulence always makes him uneasy. He hears the implied _come with us?_ in Steve’s voice when they tell him, but Sam loves his job and he does have a life outside of them (a life that he has maybe been neglecting a little), and besides, he’s pretty sure they still have things to work through on their own, especially if they’re going to make the relationship thing work.  

What does surprise him, is that Barnes hugs him. Too fast, too hard, too tense, but he _hugs him_.

“I owe you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. I won’t forget everything you’ve done for me… for Steve, too.”

Sam shrugs.

“It’s what friends are for.”

Barnes looks a little surprised, even though he has no reason to be. Maybe they’ve never said it outright, but it was kind of very strongly implied.

“Yeah, I guess. But what you did…. Letting me stay here when I was…” He vaguely motions towards himself.  “All I’m saying is, this was above and beyond anything anyone could ever have expected…  I guess I just… Wanted to say thank you.”

“Anytime. How long did you rehearse that speech for?”

“Shut up, Wilson.”

He has what is pretty much the exact same talk with Steve five minutes later. Natasha comes by to help them move (read: hide Barnes’ weapons somewhere else), but she hangs back while they’re filling a truck with what little material possessions they have, lingering in Sam’s doorway.

Just as he’s about to ask her if she needs something, she turns toward him and casually asks if he’d like to be her date to a fancy dinner she has to infiltrate, to extract some information from a foreign dignitary.

“I’m not a spy.” He tells her, a little bewildered.

“I know. I don’t need a spy, I need a date.”  And how could he refuse that?

Of course things don’t go quite as smoothly as planned and there’s some running and people shooting at them, but who is Sam kidding? It’s the most fun he’s had in a long, long time.

Plus, he gets a goodnight kiss for his troubles.

 

Sam’s glad to have gotten his house back, he is. He’s just never noticed how quiet it was to live on his own, even though the others weren’t the chattiest guys in the world.

Of course that’s when he walks into the kitchen only to find a familiar silhouette in the semi-darkness, lit by the light of the fridge.

“Jesus, Barnes. Are you trying to kill me?”

He emerges with an apple in one hand and the carton of milk in the other.

“You’re out of orange juice.”

“Hello to you, too. You couldn’t have called ahead, or something?”

“Natasha never calls ahead.”

 “When she does it it’s cute. When you do it it’s just creepy. So what are you doing here? Some kind of mission I should know about?”

Barnes turns shifty at that, and Sam guesses that it was an argument with Steve, probably something stupid or he wouldn’t have gone to what is probably the second place Steve will call when looking from him (the first one being Natasha, who’s currently posing as an heiress somewhere in LA. They have a date next week, when she’s back). 

“Nah. I just needed to get away from… things, for a while.”

“Lovers’ spat?”

Barnes rolls his eyes.

“Something like that.”

 “Well, then. Make yourself at home.”

Running can wait. Sam goes back to bed.

When it’s a more reasonable hour he’ll listen to Barnes complain about Steve’s tendency to disregard basic personal safety. Steve is going to call and apologise, whether he’s actually done something wrong or not, and Barnes is going to run back to him, because it’s what he does. Natasha will probably skype in the evening, and tell him about her day of glamour and intrigue and how tedious it is, and how when she comes back she just wants to spend an entire day watching Netflix in sweatpants with him. 

Sam hadn't signed up for any of this, but he’s really glad it happened anyway.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ... this got away from me a little. Oh, well.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://wintersoldierly.tumblr.com/)


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